


Apotheosis

by LogicIsGod327



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternative Universe - Messiah, I don't even know man it's just... it is, M/M, Religion, San Francisco, Science, Wholesale destruction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-07
Updated: 2016-12-07
Packaged: 2018-09-07 01:44:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8778181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LogicIsGod327/pseuds/LogicIsGod327
Summary: A child of God, a college student, a mysterious man and many others occupy an abandoned foundry on the San Francisco Bay. Their lives, fueled by fate and chance, collide in an unimaginable tragedy and a moment of glorious hope. The Apotheosis will come.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Holy crap, guys. I really don't even know. If you ever wondered what Laura Hale would be like if she were Jesus, here you go.

‘ _In other news, still no sign of local college student Scott McCall, who disappeared three weeks ago. McCall is the latest in a long line of disappearances from universities up and down the West Coast, with seemingly no pattern to their vanishing. If you have any information regarding Scott’s whereabouts, or the whereabouts of any missing person, you are asked to contact the Beacon Hills Police. In national news, ecomilitant group Northsun is reportedly responsible for the bombing of a series of Texan oil wells-_ ’ Stiles shuts off his television with an almost savage press of the remote.

His best friend disappeared three weeks prior, and there was no explanation. No clothes packed, no goodbye notes, nothing. He’d known Scott since they were four, had seen him almost every day for fifteen years, and now he was gone. It’s almost like Scott just vanished into thin air. It brings Stiles too much stress to bear some days, makes him want to stay in bed and hope Scott will come home while he mopes. However, he’s a journalism student, and he has resolved to find his missing friend, come Hell or high water.

Without further delay, Stiles goes back to Scott’s laptop, which he had been able to get his hands on when the police had found nothing of interest on it. ‘ _Just standard internet browsing_ ’, they’d said. The cops, although they had good intentions, didn’t know Scott, but Stiles did. No, Stiles _does_. Did means too many bad things, things involving caskets and granite gravestones. He knows his best friend almost as well as himself, and he will find him.

“Come on, Scotty, give me something to work with here.” He mutters to himself. Stiles is on a bender fueled by Red Bull and sheer determination, and he finally stumbles on something.

One web page that doesn’t make sense, a seemingly innocuous message board title Not Alone. At first, Stiles thinks it’s some sort of dating thing, but it didn’t make sense. Scott had spent months mooning over some girl in their History of Journalism class, why would he need to resort to online dating? Too curious, he clicks the link in Scott’s history. Instantly, a chat pops up.

**TheAlpha: _You remember what we talked about?_**

**OnAscent: _got it. dont let any1 kno where im goin. just go._**

**TheAlpha: _Very good. You’re going to love it where we are. Industrial ruins aren’t the prettiest, but we have easy access to the river, and the Bay._**

**OnAscent: _is it bad that im rlly nervous?_**

**TheAlpha: _Not at all. I was too, don’t worry. Now, get going. I’ll see you soon._**

What the literal Hell? Scott had been planning this? Stiles suppresses a shudder as the caffeine’s effect leaves him, and he’s left feeling drained. Deciding to search further in the morning, he collapses into his dorm room bed without further delay. He sleeps a fitful, dreamless sleep.

**-Ω-**

The Alpha unintentionally left an opening for Stiles, giving away three crucial pieces of information. Industrial ruins, a river and the Bay. There were bays up and down the West Coast, but there was only one The Bay. Scott vanished somewhere to San Francisco. As for industrial ruins, that wouldn't be too hard to find, especially along a river. The state was trying to clean up the Bay Area for years, and any industrial ruins still standing would be easily found.

Almost as soon as he wakes up, Stiles is at his laptop, searching. It’s ultimately an urban exploration site that gives him a break. The Hale Metallurgy Factory rests near the mouth of the Napa River, flowing directly into the San Francisco Bay. Built in 1972, abandoned in 1996, and once a popular site for urban explorers. Lately though, most San Fran exploration sites advise steering clear, saying that recent security measures got very strict.

Stiles blinks a few time, before, with his heart in his stomach, he calls his student advisor.

‘ _Hey, Stiles. It’s good to hear from you, how are you doing?_ ’  She answers on the first ring.

“Hey, Marin, you know how you said if I needed some time to process you’d speak to my professors? I think I’m gonna take you up on that. Just the week should be alright,” He uneasily asks.

‘ _Of course, I can totally do that. You should head home, be with family. I get it, it’s hard. Take some time, sort yourself out, and let me know how you feel,_ ’ Marin encourages him.

“Yeah, I will, thanks for understanding. I’ll talk to you later.”

‘ _Stay safe, Stiles._ ’

“Will do. Bye.”

With that, he hangs up the phone, and starts packing an overnight bag. Loaded up, Stiles heads for his battered blue Jeep. Yeah, he knows, Roscoe is a piece of shit, but he’s a broke college student, so sue him. With the Jeep gassed and ready to go, Stiles begins the long drive from Beacon Hills to Vallejo, where the Hale Metallurgy ruins actually rest.

It’s almost two hours to drive north through San Francisco, and over the Bay Bridge. Eventually, Stiles manages to pull into Vallejo, If the urban exploration sites were correct, he was going to encounter some pretty heavy security, so Roscoe would have to be parked pretty far from the plant to avoid rousing suspicion. He parks a couple of miles down the road, on a small, unassuming side street, and walks. By the time Stiles reaches the security fence, the sun is cresting on the western horizon, blowing the massive foundry into silhouette. The fence tapers off at the Napa River’s shoreline, so he manages to curl himself around the pole and onto the desolate factory’s land.

Stiles wanders around for some time, wondering if perhaps he’d chosen the wrong place, when, out of nowhere, a sackcloth is thrown over his head. His last conscious thought is: ‘ _Found the right place._ ’

**-Ω-**

The world is warm and damp, and every little sound echoes through the air. Each labored breath comes back to him a second later, twisted by the dimensions of the room. Stiles is suddenly aware of the nylon fabric of a sleeping bag beneath him, and he opens his eyes.

The light comes exclusively from a small electric lantern on an old metal desk, and the room is filled with warm, honey colored light.

“You're up.” An all too familiar voice rings out. Scott, in the same relieved tone as when they were thirteen and Stiles winded himself climbing a tree.

“Scott!” Stiles yells, scrambling to envelope his best friend in a tight hug, which he returns easily. “What the Hell is wrong with you?!” He harshly demands.

“Stiles, it’s… complicated.” Scott responds lamely. “How did you even find me?”

Stiles runs a hand through his untamed hair. “The cops found nothing useful on your laptop, so they gave it back. I checked your history and found the chat you had with whoever ‘TheAlpha’ is.”

“Fuck my life, Derek is gonna kill me.”

“He won't get the chance. You're coming home with me.” He says, grabbing Scott’s arm and dragging him out of the room.

Scott grabs back, stopping Stiles, who flails but manages not to fall. “I'm not. You may not get it, but I'm happy here. It's better for me here.”

Stiles stares in disbelief. “I don't know if you've noticed, but here is an abandoned metal foundry that I know for a fact has been condemned.”

“Nothing will happen without Her permission.”

“I don't much know who she is, but she clearly doesn't understand the definition of ‘ _condemned_ ’.”

“She is everything. No one like Her has ever existed.”

“Okay, now I know you're in a cult. Come on, it's time to go home.”

Scott is more aggressive this time. “This _is_ home. I'm staying here, like it or not.”

Stiles, sensing this is an argument he cannot win, concedes. “Fine. Then I'm staying with you.”

“No! No way, Stiles! This is something you wouldn't understand!” Scott barks out.

“Let your precious ‘she’ decide that!”

A gruff voice interrupts. “The Messiah does not decide who stays and who leaves. I do.”

“And who are you?” Stiles dryly asks.

The man steps into the room. He's tall, with searching grey eyes and black hair. He has a fair bit of stubble, and a green Henley is stretched across his broad shoulders.

“I'm the Alpha. My name, however, is Derek.”

Stiles gives a biting retort. “Pleased to meet you, Derek. Now, if you could please release my best friend from your cult, I'd be grateful.”

The previously stony faced acolyte snorts, rolling his eyes. “Scott is free to leave at any point he wants. That he's here means he wants to be. You, on the other hand, clearly don't, so why don't I walk you back to your car and you can go home?”

“Oh, you can drop fuckin’ dead if you think that's gonna happen. I'm not leaving Scott here. Either he leaves with me, or I stay.”

Scott goes to interrupt. “Derek, I'll get him out of here, I promise.”

Surprisingly, Derek offers a small, genuine smile. “Both of you, come with me.”

The halls are lit by even more lanterns hanging from the ceilings, and each bedroom door is decorated to the stylistic taste of its occupants. Stiles is left with the distinct sense of a post-apocalyptic dorm room. Further and further they go into the complex, going up, passing rooms of kids their age sparring, debating, reading, just living.

Stiles notices a symbol throughout the compound, a triple spiral that marks almost every door in some way or another, and asks about it.

“I recognize that, symbol, it’s called a… oh, God, what was it?”

“Triskelion. It was the symbol She adopted when She first started this.”

Stiles snorts. “Does she have a name?”

“Of course She does, but you’re not going to know it yet. To you, She is the Messiah.” Derek responds. “Scott, don’t tell him, I can tell you’re considering it.”

Scott chuckles. “You’re too good, man.”

“Wouldn’t be the Alpha if I wasn’t.”

Eventually, on the top floor of the foundry, they reach a small waiting area, with two plush couches that Derek motions for the two friends to sit on. On each wall a full sized flag is pinned. The banners are identical, each a dark navy blue with white bars spanning the top and bottom, and, in the center, a triskelion in white. Derek heads through a door, and leaves them alone.

There is a period of awkward silence, before Scott breaks it. “I wanted to tell you, but I couldn’t. There’s too much at stake.”

“Was it really worth losing everything and everyone you’ve ever known? Leaving your Mom agonizing over where her son is? She’s convinced you’re dead in a ditch somewhere, you know.”

The words are like a punch in the face to Scott. “I’ve been meaning to…” He mumbles.

“Meaning to _what?!_ How could you do that to us, piss away all the money your Mom put up for you to go to school, just to go live with a bunch of crazies in some abandoned factory a hundred miles away?!”

“You don't know, okay?! You have no fucking clue what She is like or what we are doing here! Some things are bigger than us!”

Stiles scoffs in disbelief. “A month ago you couldn't see past the tip of your dick and now you’re all big picture, greater good?! Bullshit! You could have told us you wanted to run off on some spiritual journey, not up and left! Is this is about Allison?”

Scott's eyes bug. “What does she have anything to do with this?”

“She broke up with you, and I get, it’s hard, but running off, joining a cult, it’s not the answer to your problems.” Stiles tries to reason. “Can you tell me how you even found these people?”

“Ally and I came up on a weekend, and we went to this underground club. I ran into Derek there, and he and I talked spirituality and shit, I thought we were just stoned, but I figured out he was real about it, and then we started on that web chat and I committed. Look, it’s part of Her rules. The old life has to be let go until the time is right. I will see mom again, I will see you again, just, not until things are set.”

The other man is left in disbelief. “This is not real life.”

“It’s the realest thing I’ve ever seen or done.”

Just then, Derek returns, and appraises Stiles. “The Messiah wants to speak with you.” He turns to Scott. “She wants to do so alone.” He gently adds. Scott nods in understanding, and sits back down.

“Is there anywhere I should go? Hallways or anything? I’d hate to take a wrong turn and wind up in your human sacrifice chamber.” Stiles dryly remarks.

“No, that’s in an outbuilding.” Derek returns, before busting out laughing at the blanched horror on the outsider’s face. Once he recovers, he continues. “Just move through to the center of the room.”

“Well, isn’t that helpful?” Stiles mutters to himself. Without further ado, he makes his way through the door.

The room is large, almost too large. Going from the well-lit foyer to the darkened room where pale blue light trickles through in thin lines from the ceiling is a shock on Stiles’ eyes, which take a moment to adjust. When they do, he’s stunned. Plants, fully grown trees, ferns, grasses, and mosses, grow everywhere. It’s warm, warm and humid and dark. There is a fully formed jungle on the top floor of an abandoned factory, by some miracle. Somewhere, crickets chirp, and he swears he heard a hint of birdsong. If he had to guess, he’d say that the room took up the majority, if not the entirety, of the top floor of the foundry.

Eventually, Stiles takes note of a winding path through the transplanted rainforest, and began walking. Unfortunately, the path is merely a well walked trail, and tree roots trip him up without fail, making him stumble and curse with every unfortunate encounter. Finally, a few minutes later, he finds his way to a small clearing. It’s empty, except for a small woman, dressed entirely in white. Her back is turned to him, and all he can see are her arms, which are faded pale blue in the light, and the rush of black hair that falls in waves to her back. Finally, she turns around, and Stiles is rooted to the spot. She gives him the tiniest smile, and he’s blinded.

“Genim Daniel Stilinski, we meet at last.” She says. Her voice is rich like honey.

The woman before Stiles is arguably the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen in his nineteen years. She has an ovular face, which is dominated by searching brown eyes the same color as freshly dug earth, and perched above them are her checked eyebrows. Even in the altered light of the room, her plump lips are a lush pink. She exudes power in ways Stiles has never felt.

The Messiah is fluid even in stillness, and, when she starts walking, it’s almost as if the world moves around her. The dress ripples behind her, revealing her small, bare feet. She’s lucky if she’s five feet tall, but to Stiles, she is like a giant. The rational part of his brain knows she’s no messiah, but he suddenly understands the feeling Scott was trying to communicate.

Finally, he musters up the ability to speak. “How do you know my full name?”

“I’ve known you were coming for a while. Even before I knew Scott  was coming.”

He’s left aghast. “What do you mean?”

“The Creator whispers to me, sometimes, in the deep sleep of dreams. It tells me things, names, mostly. I heard yours early on.” The Messiah says. “Want me to tell you other things? There are plenty. Your mother died of frontotemporal dementia when you were ten, your father is Sheriff John Stilinski of Beacon County. Shall I continue?”

“That's all the subject of public record.” Stiles bites back, clinging to logic.

The Messiah seems contemplative for a moment, like she's being spoken to. “It doesn't understand why you blame yourself. And It certainly doesn't understand why you hurt yourself like that.”

“I never told anyone that.”

“The Creator is omnipotent, Stiles. It sees all and It knows all.”

“There's gotta be a way you know that. Psychoanalysis or something. Anyone who can be trained properly can read a person like a book.”

The Messiah gasps. “Why on Earth would you intend to carve ‘ _MURDERER_ ’ into your skin?!”

It breaks Stiles’ last shred of logic. He'd only gotten the ‘ _M_ ’ out before his father had walked in on the sight and promptly taken him to the ER. He hadn't told anyone, not even Scott. The Messiah couldn't know that. There’s no rational explanation.

Wiping tears from his eyes, Stiles speaks with a shaky tenor. “What are you?”

The Messiah gives him a wider grin. “I am the Messiah, the Savior birthed unto man. The Daughter of God, the Mother of Humanity, and the Chalice of Life. Here, watch.”

She walks over to a small bush, and urges Stiles to follow. Up close, She smells of petrichor and honeysuckle, and the presence is nearly overpowering. She lets an unbloomed blossom rest in the palm of Her hand, and, after a mere moment of contact, a rose opens and grows, fully formed. Then, the entire bush does. Like a tsunami of color, flowers blossom and bloom across the whole room.

“Do you believe me now?” She prompts.

All Stiles can do is sink to his knees in wonder. “What do I call you?”

“What I gave you was my full title. My, pardon the pun, God given name, is Laura.”

“Laura.” He says it with a reverence even She is shocked to find in his voice so quickly.

She offers Stiles Her hand, and, as though he's afraid it'll break by his touch, he takes it. With a strength Her tiny frame would not imply, Laura raises him up.

“I am not to be worshiped. I’m here to _lead_ the worship.”

“What are we worshipping?” Stiles asks.

Laura chuckles. “Follow me.” She urges.

**-Ω-**

Stiles trails after Laura, listening eagerly as She explains to him the basic rules, at least, as She understands them. According to Her, the Creator can be vague at times, but she can confirm there are a handful of basic rules, with five at the very heart of it all. These five rules are called the Central Precepts.

She leads him down another stairwell to a large room filled with metal bookshelves, packed tight with books, both old and new. It certainly doesn’t follow the dewey decimal system, but there’s an even more elegant system: color coding. The books flow through the rainbow, and, somehow, there’s an approximately even split in colors. Stiles had no clue so many books came with purple hardcovers.

The two story library is well lit, and a massive skylight offers a spectacular view of the stars above. They stand on the second floor balcony, which wraps around three sides of the wall. On the level below, a wall is lined with a smorgasbord of computers, from the latest iMac to well-loved little laptops. Acolytes sit at some, writing, on Facebook, watching YouTube or even gaming. Opposite that, couches are clustered around flatscreens, some of which play the news, others movies, others still video games and some still late night television. There are more couches, chairs and tables, where some sit reading or discussing or listening to music or even sleeping.

In the center of the lower level, more books, this time arranged in a more conventional manner. The room is hardly packed, but a solid thirty or so people occupy the enormous space. Stiles is so caught up in the incredible hangout space that he fails to notice the mural on the far wall until Laura points it out.

The mural dominates the entirety of the two story wall, and, the top, in a fine cursive hand, reads _‘_ _The Central Precepts’_. Split into rainbow segments, each Precept has its own miniature mural that flows into the others around it, with characters and objects caught halfway between. The Precepts read as follows:

_I- Honor all life_

_II- Give thanks for every life ended that yours might continue_

_III- Inflict no suffering on others_

_IV- Accept the past_

_V- Rejoice at all you have_

It’s so simple, it brings Stiles up short. Nothing about honoring gods or hellfire or anything. Simple, common morality. He realizes with a start that Laura is a living example of this, that Her very being is the personification of these Precepts.

“Those are the rules?”

Laura shrugs and smiles. “The important ones. And they’re more like guidelines. It’s obvious that you can’t always follow them, but you should at least make an effort. That’s what this whole thing is about, making an effort.”

“Towards what, exactly?”

Laura sighs, and it devastates Stiles to see Her in any state of unhappiness. It brings him up short, how he’s so attached to Her well being despite having known Her for about fifteen minutes.

“This is usually the part that sends people running.” She warns. “A time is coming, when I will give two of my followers a child, who’s destined to lead a new state, the new state. And that child and I will work together to bring the world together. I’m here on a mission from the Creator. The child will lead the state, and I will lead the church. At least, that’s what the Creator tells me. It calls it ‘ _Apotheosis_ ’.” She looks hesitant, like She’s expecting him to turn and run screaming or something.

Stiles surprises himself, by gently laying his hand on Her arm. “Then, if you'll have me, I want to help bring about the Apotheosis.”

Laura smiles, a true one of joyful relief that sends Stiles reeling.

“But, I have some questions.” He caveats. “Feel free not to answer any you don't want to, of course.”

“‘ _Seek knowledge without fear, cast off ignorance without shame.’_ Apothean Precept nine.”

“Nice to know. Well, does this mean that the Christians are right or something?”

Laura shakes Her head. “If there was a religious leader named Jesus, he was no child of God.”

“Ah. Okay, uh… Were you an immaculate conception?”

“No. I had a mother and father. That said, my mother was infertile, she couldn't even conceive, let alone carry. One day, she missed a period, which would never happen. Hoping for hope, she took a pregnancy test, and it was positive. The doctors monitored her miracle baby extremely carefully, waiting for the inevitable miscarriage, but it never came. I was an easy pregnancy, an easy birth, and an easy baby.”

Stiles is surprised, he expected nothing less than an angel descending with a cherubic baby Laura from heaven. “You keep talking about prophecy. Does this mean free will isn't real, that it's all some plan?”

She sighs. “This is the tricky one. From the moment this reality came to be, every birth was planned. For fourteen billion years, our mothers were destined to be our mothers, and their mothers their, and so on back and back and back. But did the Creator plan what you had for breakfast or for you to wear your favorite Batman underwear today? No.”

Stiles whips his head around to check that, yes, he is wearing the Batman underwear. “Hey, how did you-?!”

Laura giggles helplessly, and wears a positively _impish_ smirk as She silently points upwards.

“God has a sense of humor, huh?”

“Of sorts. Anyway, It doesn't plan much, just the big things, like the death of a leader or a major terror attack or some great innovation that improves life everywhere. For most of us, a single event in our lives is planned. Other times, a small action we take will make a contribution to a greater cosmic plan. For most of us, anyway, it’s just a crapshoot.”

Stimes feels a burgeoning sense of relief, his free will is actually free will. Who wouldn’t celebrate avoiding an existential crisis? He goes to ask another question, before a busty blond girl bursts onto the balcony, panic on her face.

“Erica, what’s wrong?!” Laura demands.

“Laura! It’s Isaac! He was working in one of the outbuildings, and trying to repair a floor when it gave and… oh, _God_!”

The Messiah blanches. “Is he…?” She whispers.

“No, but he’s in bad shape.”

Her face becomes resolute and starts to stride towards the stairs, making a motion for Stiles to follow. Outside, he takes a moment to appreciate the distant San Franciscan skyline, before being swept into a crumbling outbuilding. There are others, clustered around a broken form. The boy is perhaps eighteen or nineteen, the same age as the rest of them, and he’s pale, whether it be from blood loss or natural coloration, Stiles does not know.

The boy, Isaac, he vaguely remembers, has tousled ashy blonde curls, and a square jaw. He’s pretty, but his face is twisted in pain, marred by blood. One leg is bent at an unnatural angle, and a pillar of white juts from an ugly red wound. A compound fracture, and a _bad_ one at that. The kind that would require multiple surgeries and many months of physical therapy. Isaac’s shirt is cut away, revealing a malformed rib cage that is more purple than white. Stiles is no med student, but he'd bet a semester’s tuition Isaac has some very severe internal bleeding.

“Boyd, help me lift him, we need to do this in the medical wing.” Laura instructs another boy, this one with dark skin that's built like a brick wall.

Isaac can little more than groan as he’s moved and carried off by the two into the night air, where a thin sliver of crescent moon lights the scene in pale strands of white. Back inside the main compound, they walk the injured boy to a large room filled with medical supplies, setting him on an examination table.

Laura sets Her hands ever so lightly on the malformed chest, where ribs are no doubt penetrating into Isaac’s lungs and other organs. It’s a straight from God miracle. The ribs begin to mend with sharp pops and cracks, and Isaac’s chest shifts and shivers as his broken bones right themselves. The bruises fade off, and, in seconds, it’s as though Isaac never shattered most of his ribcage.

“Derek, Boyd, Stiles, take his unbroken limbs, Scott, hold his chest. I need to set his leg before I can heal it, and it’s gonna suck for him.” Laura calmly orders.

They do as they are told, with Boyd taking the left leg, and Derek and Stiles holding each arm. Unable to look at the proceedings below, Stiles simply locks eyes with Derek. Laura grabs hold of Isaac’s leg, and, the very second She touches the wounded limb, Isaac tenses, and, as She pulls to reset the bone, he strains, desperately pulling and fighting off, letting loose an agonized roar, one that echoes down the concrete halls and out into the open skies around the compound. Finally, with a sickening _crunch_ , Isaac’s leg is set, and he falls limp, eyes unseeing as he passes out from the pain.

Laura holds Her hands over the gory mess of his leg, and Stiles, now able to handle the sight of the offending wound, watches in rapt fascination as the skin mends back over the healed bone.

“Scott, can you take him up to your room?” Derek suggests. “He should be with someone he trusts, and Stiles needs to get set up with his own room.”

“Yeah, sure.” He gingerly picks up Isaac bridal style, and carries him off towards a rusty elevator.

Laura bids Stiles and Derek good night, and the two men walk back up a few flights of stairs, and soon arrive at an unoccupied room, with a dry erase board on the door. Stiles takes the pen and, in his looping script, writes his name. Derek guides him in, and the room is not all too unpleasant, with a comfy looking bed, chair, and a desk and computer chair. Unlike Scott’s internal room, it has a foggy glass window looking east, where the sun is teasing at the horizon.

“It’s morning. I thought this night would last forever.” Stiles remarks, sighing, and setting down on the bed.

“Get some rest. We’ll get you up in time for morning invocation.” Derek urges him.

Stiles yawns. “Okay, big guy. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“See you in the morning, Stiles.”

**-Ω-**

Stiles stirs slightly, the morning sun now casting long shadows through the foggy glass of his window. Even only half awake, he can sense another person in the room.

“Time to get up, Derek.” The voice says, a touch mocking.

He rolls over and buries his face deeper into his pillows. “Don’t wanna. Go away, Scotty.”

The voice snorts. “Try again.”

Stiles recognizes this voice. Derek is waking him up for whatever it was they have in the morning. Morning invocation, his half-conscious mind informs him. Finally opening his eyes, Stiles sees Derek sitting in his desk chair, a bag of clothes, a laptop and some other things resting on the desk behind him. Sitting up, he realizes that they’re his clothes, and his laptop.

“How’d you-?!”

Derek holds a hand up. “Laura asked me to steal your keys and get your stuff.”

“How long was I out?”

The acolyte activates Stiles’ phone, which reads _10:17_. “Not too long, about six hours.”

“So, what’s this ‘ _morning invocation_ ’ you speak of?” Stiles queries.

“Laura’s bratty way of saying breakfast.”

**-Ω-**

The cafeteria is a massive room set not far from the library. Tables are set up in long rows, and, all along one wall, a buffet of breakfast foods is placed in massive metal tins. There are omelets, bacon, pancakes, everything imaginable, and the smell is heavy and wonderful.

“Stiles!” Scott calls from where he sits with Isaac, Boyd, Erica and some strawberry blonde girl he doesn’t recognize. “Get your food and get over here!”

“I’m coming, quit your nagging!” He jokingly calls back.

Plates loaded with food, Derek and Stiles set down at the table, where Stiles is introduced to the redheaded girl, who is named Lydia.

“Lydia here is our resident money expert.” Scott informs him. “She’s been siphoning cash off of bankers and crooked politicians on Laura’s behalf.”

Stiles gives a low whistle. “ _Shit_. Congratulations on striking back for the little guy.”

Lydia gives a grateful nod. “Our coffers are well padded, that’s for certain. That some cash shows up at random to certain charities via anonymous donations is just an added bonus.”

Stiles moves to respond, but upon processing the sheer bliss of the pancakes in his mouth, instead makes a positively filthy noise and begs to know who made the delicious item. Boyd raises his hand, only to be tackled by 147 pounds of joyful college student.

“These are the best pancakes I have had in all my many years on this earth.” He enthuses.

A voice echoes behind him. “Nineteen is not many compared to four and a half billion, Stiles.” Laura, in characteristic white robes, sets Her plate and cup down at the end of one table and settles in, biting into a slice of bacon.

Stiles pauses, before deciding to just be himself. “Hey, I am an old, old man! I’ve just aged really well!” To which Scott snorts.

Shaking Her head affectionately, Laura sips her grapefruit juice, and smiles.

The next few weeks proceed in much the same manner, with Stiles growing ever closer to Derek. The two spend time in the library debating politics and spirituality, watching movies, playing games. When not with Derek, he spends his time with Scott, going on excursions from the compound to the city and generally bro-ing out. It’s his time with Laura, however, that is most precious. He rapidly finds himself accepted into the Betas, Laura’s group of those closest to her, composed of Erica, Boyd, Isaac, Erica, Lydia, and himself.

Stiles makes other friends, as well. He learns almost all of the 147 acolytes’ names, and makes sure to try and meet them and speak to them. There’s also work, too. A guy named Jackson is their combat trainer, teaching them basic self-defence and weapons work. Nothing with guns, but most of the acolytes are reasonably proficient with a staff or blade, at Laura’s insistence. Her fears for the safety of Her followers means She does all She can for them and their safety.

The meetings in the Forest Room are a key ceremony of the Betas. At least three times a week, they dress in all white, and go to the clearing where Stiles first met Laura, and meditate in the hot, humid room. They pass gallon jugs filled with water around the avoid heat exhaustion, and commune with themselves and with Laura, who always wipes the sweat from her brow at the end with a bright grin, and the promise of a treat: going to the best ice cream place in the Bay area in Alameda.

**-Ω-**

Across the Bay, on a campus in the heart of downtown San Francisco, a clandestine meeting takes place. The Argent Bioengineering Corporation, better known as Argent Labs, is headed by one eighty-year-old Gerard Argent. His eldest son, Chris, and only daughter Katherine are co-vice presidents of the company, and the three sit in Gerard’s office.

“This extraordinary young woman must be ours. Your daughter, Chris, failed in her mission. I won’t tolerate another failure.” Gerard speaks harshly.

Kate interjects, eager. “Let me raid the compound, Dad. We’ll minimize casualties, have the bitch on a table by sundown.”

“Kate, slow down. I don’t want to kill anyone we don’t have to. What intelligence do our scouts have?”

Chris pulls up an iPad with photos of the Hale Foundry, as well as one photo showing Stiles and Derek walking in a courtyard. “The latest arrival is a kid named Stiles Stilinski, he seems to be one of the girl’s newest entourage.”

“Odd, she hasn’t taken someone into her sanctum in some time, and certainly not so quickly.”

Chris nods. “We’ve also seen him spending a good deal of time with her guard, the boy Allison tried to seduce.”

Gerard raises an eyebrow. “You don’t think he’s the other half of the girl’s prophecy, do you?”

“Perhaps. I don’t see how, seeing as two males can’t procreate.”

Katherine again speaks. “Don’t doubt her abilities. I need to be able to send out our asset acquisition team or we risk killing her and us. Anyone else is expendable!” She insists.

“I won’t send you in guns blazing yet, my dear, but I will tell you this: keep your men ready.”

Katherine’s blinding grin borders on deranged. “Of course, daddy.”

**-Ω-**

Derek awakes to a mess in his sheets for the fourth day in a row.

Muttering to himself about his duties, he picks up the stained bedspread and throws it down the former elevator shaft turned laundry shoot his room had access to. He heads to the communal showers, quickly washes, dresses, and makes his way to the gym area, grabbing a yoga mat. Derek normally meditates in the gym with the others, but he can’t, he needs the peace of the Forest Room.

For some time, Derek is able to reach a fitful meditative trance, interjected by dancing visions of the dreams that have been taunting him. Stiles, pinned beneath him, miles of pale, mole-dotted skin. Whiskey colored eyes with pupils blow to black voids ringed by gold. An upturned nose, a teasing grin, messy chestnut hair. More scenes, as well. Scenes of sex and love and hope and hurt and-

 _Damn_. He’s lost the trance.

Opening his eyes, he stares up at the slatted light that streams from the ceiling. Birdsong comes softly to Derek’s ears, and, when he looks back across the clearing, Laura is there, sitting on a throne of vines and tree limbs, Her own eyes closed.

“Something’s preying on you.” It’s a statement, not a question.

Derek sighs. “I’m afraid I’m disobeying you.”

Laura opens Her eyes, and raises an eyebrow. Standing, the boreal throne slips back into the ground, and She offers Derek Her hand, urging him to rise. She rolls up the yoga mat and tosses it in the direction of a path out of the Forest Room.

“Kneel.” She softly orders, the two bending down and joining hands. The dirt floor gives way to soft moss, and then vines creep along their legs, up their bodies, joining together on their hands.

Laura’s mind touches Derek’s lightly, tenuously, working until the telepathic link is stable.

‘ _Why do you think you’re disobeying me?_ ’ She asks.

In his mind, Derek again sighs. ‘ _I have feelings for someone, someone who can’t be the Omega._ ’

‘ _Do you love him?_ ’

There’s a long pause. ‘ _I don’t know. I thought I loved her… but I don’t know._ ’

‘ _If you truly love him, and he truly loves you, he is the Omega._ ’

‘ _How is that possible?_ ’

Laura doesn’t respond with words, but rather, a vision. It’s Her, overlooking a long stretch of desert land, hands curled protectively around Her stomach, which is swollen and filled as only a pregnancy could do to Her.

‘ _I will give two of my followers a child. That is what I promised you those months ago. If you love him, tell him._ ’

The link breaks as Derek moves to find Stiles, searching him out, ripping off the vines that Laura had grown upon him in their connection. He leaves so quickly he forgets the shoes he took off when he began meditating.

Stiles is in one of the outbuildings, sparring with Boyd, and Derek quickly ascertains this from Scott. Returning to recover his shoes, he then rushes across the foundry grounds to the sparring lesson. Calming himself, Derek enters the room.

“Stiles,” He calls. “Laura wants to see you.”

Looking surprised, the other man quickly follows Derek’s lead to the Forest Room, where Derek turns, taking Stiles’ hand in his own. “She didn’t want to see you, I just… I wanted to do this here.” 

“What on Earth are you talking about?” He questions.

“I- Stiles…” The Alpha sighs. “I have feelings for you. Strong feelings. I want to be with you, Stiles.”

Stiles is dumbstruck, heady, and needs some air. The object of some of his very interesting dreams is into him. Derek  is into him. He half stumbles against a tree in shock, sending some bright blue bird of paradise flying out with a flutter of wings and feathers.

“Me? You mean I’m… I'm it?” He can barely bring himself to say the word ‘Omega’.

Derek takes his hand with one of his own, and runs the other down Stiles’  jawline. “Yeah, you are. You're it.”

The hand that was tracing his jaw now comes up to cup his cheek, and Derek’s leather and pine scent fills Stiles’ nostrils a fraction of a second before their lips are joined in a chaste kiss.

It feels like forever, standing there in that eighth story jungle. Stiles’ arms snake their way around Derek’s neck, pulling him close and pressing the slightly shorter man’s body flush to his own.

Derek is the one to break the kiss, pressing another one against Stiles’ lips. There's an undeniable surge of something through his entire being, but Derek speaks and the fleeting feeling flees.

“We should go see Laura, get you properly welcomed.”

So the two depart for Laura, whom Derek says is located in the library. True to his word, there She is, discussing and laughing with an acolyte whose name escapes Stiles.

Derek intertwines their hands, and it immediately catches Laura’s eye. She raises one immaculate eyebrow, and then rapidly crosses into their space, engulfing them both in Her arms with a tight hug.

With joy in Her eyes, She speaks. “This is cause for celebration. Let's go out tonight.”

Stiles lets the shock break through. “Out? Out where?”

“To dinner, of course! There's a three piece suit in your closet, go get dressed. Lydia will have a reservation for us set up at a place in the city shortly.” She tells him.

“Derek, tell the other Betas to dress nicely and to get the vehicles ready, please.”

The two men do as they’re asked. True to Her world, there’s a slate grey suit in Stiles’ closet, pressed and clean, vest and all. He slips into the surprisingly comfortable outfit, and reapplies some hair gel in his chestnut tresses, keeping it swooping upward.

Outside, two black sedans wait for them. The Betas and Laura are clustered in conversation, and Stiles is honestly surprised Laura has exchanged her usual set of white robes for a tight black dress the falls to her knees. The boys all wear suits, somewhere in the blue to black spectrum, and Erica is in a red dress so tight and so short that it could like give men with weak hearts chest pains. Boyd, however, is focused only on her face as the two carry on in their own private bubble. 

“God, I hope we don’t get that uxorious.” Derek speaks from behind, making Stiles jump.

With a gasp, he lightly hits the other man on the shoulder. “Goddammit, don’t do that!” He chastises. “Heart conditions run in my family as it is, I don’t need you making it worse.”

Speaking of his family makes Stiles’ heart twinge. Logically, he understands that his dad wouldn't understand, that by the time he will, it’ll be a better world, hopefully. It still pains him, especially when he sees all the missed calls and urgent Facebook messages. He couldn't bear to read them, nor listen to the painful voicemails. He'd cried during their talk in the Forest Room, and a brand new iPhone, pre-programmed with everyone’s contacts, had appeared without explanation on his desk the next morning.

Setting aside the feelings of remorse, Stiles is able to smile as Derek holds open the passenger door for him. Lydia, Isaac, and Scott quickly hop into the backseat, and the other car is occupied by Laura, Boyd, and Erica.

“Why are we forced to share when there’s an empty passenger seat in the other car?” Scott grouches.

Lydia reapplies a bit of smudged makeup, and replies as she fixes her lip stain. “Because I can only take so long of Erica and Boyd putting on a sex show in the back seat before I get sick of it, and it’s almost forty minutes to San Francisco.”

“She’s got a fair point, dude.” Isaac inputs.

Scott tilts his head in a begrudging concession. The remainder of the drive is filled with idle conversation, laughter and jokes, until they finally pull up to an impressive restaurant at the edge of the financial district. Two valets take their cars, and the group of young adults gather in the Italian restaurant’s lobby.

The maître d' can barely muster it in himself to speak when Laura leans against his podium and softly utters, “Hale, party of eight.” With a small, genuine smile.

“O- Of course, miss. Come right this way.” He manages to stutter out, leading them up the stairs to a balcony overlooking the rest of the establishment, and Laura takes an easy seat at the head of the table.

A similar effect is given on their waitress. Once drinks are distributed and order placed, Isaac bursts out laughing. “You have got to stop doing that to people!” He chortles.

Laura innocently raises Her hands. “I have no clue what you’re talking about, Isaac. I wasn’t doing anything.” She says.

Boyd rolls his eyes. “Yeah, okay.”

The meal proceeds wonderfully, with stories being exchanged, before, as Erica recounts a story from her youth involving a friend and a very upset gila monster, Laura’s eyes get as big as dinner plates and a grin that can only be described as shit-eating paints Her face.

“Laura, no!” Erica half warns, half pleads.

“Oh, Erica… he has a right to know!” Laura's voice is full of wicked glee.

“Oh, you're gonna tell him anyway, just do it!” She gives, exasperated.

“Tell me what?” Stiles asks, confused.

Laura chuckles. “Erica was one of the first acolytes I picked up, she was in Portland-,”

“With a group of eco-activists.” Erica interrupts.

“- And I knew she was bound to be one of us, so I walked up and introduced myself, to which she responded?” She opens Her arms to call the room to chorus.

Six voices ring out in unison. “Holy shit, you're the hottest chick I've ever seen!”

Stiles loses it, laughing so hard water flies up his nose. It's a solid two minutes before he's able to recover, and the rest of the room is in a similar state. Even Erica is giving a full-bellied laugh.

When the room quiets, Laura stands, urging the others to do so as well. She raises Her glass, filled with a fine 1932 pinot noir. “We’ve waited a long time for this, but we’d found him. A toast, to Stiles, our Omega!” She cheerily toasts.

“To Stiles!” The room echoes, all wide smiles and joyous eyes.

“When are you going to properly induct him?” Lydia asks.

Stiles turns his head quizzically. “Induct me?”

Laura considers for a moment, and then decides. “Why not right now? Stiles, this won’t take long, but, I will warn you, it does hurt, more than you can imagine, but only for a second.”

He gulps, but, without responding, nods. Laura’s fingers are searching out his temples, along his cheekbones, and his jawline. For a moment, it’s almost like there’s a fluttering in his mind, until, suddenly, searing agony. Every migraine Stiles has ever had, and he has had plenty, they stack up to the nothing compared to the spiraling pain in the back of his head. Then, just as suddenly as it’s there, it’s gone.

He feels something. Tugging. There’s nothing and no one touching him anymore, but there’s a tugging.

‘ _Stiles? Stiles, love, open your eyes._ ’ Laura asks.

He does as asked, but realizes that Laura didn’t actually speak.

“What did you do?” He asks.

Laura smiles at him. “A bit of accelerated development. Someday very soon, babies will start being born with a new gland in the brain, a gland enabling touch telepathy. You just developed that gland. Why don't you try it with Derek?” She suggests. “Just focus on putting your thoughts through to him.”

Tenuously, Stiles takes Derek outstretched hand.

Instantly, he's bombarded by emotion, thought and sight. Images tainted with love, affection, desire, friendship, beauty. It clears away, though, and a voice echoes across his mind.

‘ _Hi_.’ Derek broadcasts.

‘ _Hey._ ’

Regrettably, their waitress returns with their check, which Lydia pays off with a swipe of a credit card. Still reeling from the richness of the emotion and the sudden paradigm shift, Stiles pokes at the strings now joining his mind. It's easy to visualize the bonds, each with their own color, texture, and design.

Derek’s is a vibrant red, and he pictures it as a carbon chain, an unbreakable diamond line between them. Lydia’s is pastel pink, an elegant chain necklace with one clasp in his mind, and another in hers. Erica’s is orange, and it's a pair of handcuffs he visualizes, one clicked to his mind, the other hers. As for Isaac, it's a cool blue rope joining them, and a green steel cable between Boyd and Stiles. Scott’s is a gold wrought iron column, but it’s Laura's that is the overwhelming presence.

Laura’s link is a blinding white column of pure light, a light no shadow could dim. Stiles is still poking and prodding around the links as they pile back into the vehicles, and begin the drive home. Still enjoying the connection he's never felt before as they drive through an intersection, he notices a low black vehicle speeding towards them, but pays little mind, expecting it to stop. It doesn't.

The last thing he feels is the spray of glass as their windows explode when the car lands upside down.

**-Ω-**

The scientists drop the brain scans on Gerard Argent’s’ desk, all eight minds showing the same curious deformity, another gland pressed against the cerebellum. More curiously, when one subject was stimulated with electricity, similar responses would be evoked in the other seven.

“What about her genes?” Argent queries eagerly.

The geneticist shows him what appears to be a standard double helix of DNA, but she quickly corrects the record. “On the surface, her genome looks normal. But, when we examine it, she’s actually a genetic Noah’s Ark of some sorts. We have no clue how, but every species that’s gone extinct in the last fifty or so thousand years, the complete genetic code of it is inside hers. More than that, there are species we’ve never even seen, or heard of.”

“Miraculous.” Gerard speaks, in pure awe.

The geneticist continues. “We’ve also discovered something new in her blood, which we’ve hesitantly named L-cells. They seem to be some sort of immune booster acting with her T-cells.”

“L-cells?” Argent asks.

“Laura cells, sir.”

“Ah.”

“We also had to call in an OB/GYN, sir.”

Gerard looks up from the documents on Laura. “Why?”

The scientist shifts uneasily. “Well, sir… She’s two weeks pregnant.”

“Pregnant?! My god! Is it her guardian’s?!” He asks.

“It’s not hers, sir.”

“She’s pregnant, how can it not be hers?”

The geneticist again shifts, rubbing her head. “We’re not sure, but it’s the guardian’s and the new one’s. The genetic child of two males.”

“She’s something entirely new.”

The scientists, thrilled with their newest test subjects, agree.

**-Ω-**

There’s a pounding in Stiles’ head when he wakes up. When he goes to shield his eyes from the blinding white light of the room, he finds his arms bound to the table he’s been laid out upon, as are his legs. He feels hungover, and it’s the first indication that he’s been drugged. The room he’s in is fairly large, and full of expensive machinery, and Stiles slowly realizes much of that machinery is hooked to him, reading his biosignatures and other data. There are CT scans, X-rays, blood tests, everything on him.

_How long was he out for?!_

Despite a severe case of cottonmouth, he manages to force out a sound that he hopes resembles ‘ _Hello_ ’, but, just to be safe, he yells again, this time successfully. After no one comes for a moment, Stiles feels something, another tug on his mind. He follows the bond back to Isaac, who is transmitting a wave of concern. In response, he tries to send feelings of assurance, which seems to work, since the next emotion that comes from Isaac is curiosity, and he tries his best to say ‘ _I don’t know._ ’

He also tries the other bonds, which are still intact, but he receives no response. Eventually, someone comes in. A dark skinned Indian woman strides through the room, smiling gently at him.

“Good evening, Stiles. I’m Doctor Sarah Naveen, I’m going to take care of you while you’re here.”

“Where is here?” Stiles warily asks.

The doctor points to the threaded words on her labcoat. Argent Bioengineering. “You’ve been assigned to us, given your special circumstances. Standard hospitals couldn’t do much for you.”

“Are any of them hurt badly?!” Panic threads his voice.

Doctor Naveen lays a hand soothingly on his arm. “Your friends are going to be fine. And, as much as I disagree with this, I’m afraid you’re going to be here for some time.”

“What?! Why?!”

She shakes her head. “Something to do with the girl, that’s all they would tell me.”

“Laura?” He asks, and she nods. “What’s wrong with Her?!”

“I don’t know, but I do know this. As your physician for the foreseeable future, working yourself up is not a good idea, especially in your condition. Broken ribs and panic attacks do for not a good time make, young man.”

Stiles is starting to feel a growing pain in his ribs, so he takes small, shallow breaths, all while trying to stay calm.

“What time is it?” He asks, trying to distract himself.

Sarah nods, approving. “It’s nine at night. Your accident was yesterday.”

Stiles opens his mouth to respond, but a wave of desperate panic strikes him, and he’s overwhelmed, Derek’s swamped the bond with emotion, so much that it’s a titanic effort to slam the link shut, as painful as it is. Even then, Derek is beating against the barrier with all his might, and Stiles steels himself, before throwing the door between them open and screaming back ‘ _Relax!_ ’ across the link, and shutting the bond once more.

Finally, after a moment, the unrelenting panic ceases, to which Stiles opens the link back up, and tries his damnedest to force actual words through to Derek.

‘ _Can you hear me?_ ’ He asks.

‘ _Yes_.’ Derek broadcasts back, infinitely relieved.

‘ _Have you talked to anyone yet?_ ’

‘ _No. You have someone there?_ ’

Stiles sends an image of Doctor Naveen in response, when, suddenly, someone steps forward, an old man with a craggy, severe looking face.

“You must be Stiles. I’m Gerard, it’s good to meet you.” He says in a heavy tone.

Stiles considers for a moment, and then decides to play nice. “You as well. Can you tell me why I’m here?”

Gerard nods. “After your accident, our medical staff were the first to find you, and we found a curious anomaly in your all of your minds. This place is a registered state hospital, and we’re fully prepared to take care of all of you.”

“What anomaly?” Stiles asks, knowing full well what the octogenarian was referring to.

“A curious gland in all of your brains, one that seems to indicate a telepathic connection. Can you tell me about this?” The old man asks, leaning in close to inspect the younger one.

“It’s a link. The bond, we call it. Considering how thoroughly you’ve tested me, you know She’s responsible for it.”

“What exactly is she, Stiles?”

Stiles looks Gerard in the eye with a placid face as he answers. “The Messiah, the Savior birthed unto man. The Daughter of God, the Mother of Humanity, and the Chalice of Life.”

The old man laughs. “You can’t really believe that, can you? I’d sooner believe she’s from another world than the second coming of Christ.”

“No Christ. No Christianity. There’s only the Apotheosis.” Stiles replies, a mystic tone in his voice.

“What is the Apotheosis, Stiles?” Doctor Naveen asks.

He gives a ghost of a smile. “‘Seek knowledge without fear, cast off ignorance without shame.’ The Apotheosis is the ascendancy of humanity, She’s destined to give us a leader, a leader that I’m going to be the father of.”

“As is your Alpha, Derek. How did you manage to conceive that child, let alone impregnate her with it?”

Stiles is struck with confusion. “What do you mean?”

“The girl is pregnant, and it’s yours and Derek’s. How?” Gerard queries, a harsh edge coloring his tone.

“I didn’t know… She must’ve had an immaculate conception.”

“You’re lying!” The man bursts out.

Sarah intervenes. “Alright, that’s enough! You’re distressing my patient, Mr. Argent, please leave.” 

The old man keeps glaring for a moment, but rises, smooths his tweed jacket, and walks away. Wordlessly, the doctor frees Stiles from his bonds, but urges him to remain on the table for a moment. She strides over to the door and peers out at either end, and then takes out a cell phone, placing a call.

“Are you all in position?” She asks, listening for a response. “Good, I need you to kill the security cameras, and be ready. Their little private army is on deployment doing God knows what, so you’ll meet little, if any resistance. They’ve got a bunch of kids hostage, I’m gonna try to get them out.”

“What?” Stiles rises, confusion plain on his features.

“Listen, there’s something going on here, something big. These kids are something special, we gotta get them somewhere safe. Alright, thanks, I’ll be expecting you.”

Stiles rises from the bed. “What the Hell is going on?”

“I’m a plant, I belong to Northsun, and I’m getting you kids out of here.” Naveen says. “We’re blowing this whole place sky high.” She strides from the room, urging Stiles, dressed in white clothing to follow.

She strides to another room, where Boyd lays, still sedated. “Hand me a syringe.” Sarah orders, and Stiles complies.

“What are you doing?” He asks.

“Epinephrine, it’ll wake him up, the sedatives are out of his system.” She says, injecting the syringe into Boyd’s arm. True to her word, Boyd’s eyes fly open as the adrenaline pumps through his system.

In similar fashion, they find and free the others, until, finally, Derek follows his link to the main testing area, where Laura is being held. At the same time, machine gunfire echoes in the distance.  

“What are they doing to Her?!” He asks, aghast.

“They’re preparing to take samples of her major tissues. We need to stop that.” The dark skinned woman says, deadly serious. “Stay here.” She orders.

The doctor walks into the operating room with ease, and, to their shock, pulls out a pistol. Without flinching, she opens fire, killing three people in as many seconds, and she then beckons everyone in. The sound of machine guns gets closer.

“She's been sedated, I need Narcan.”

“What's that?”

“Blue bottle labeled ‘Naloxone’, should be in that cabinet over there.” She points to the far wall.

Lydia rushes back over, and hands Naveen the vial, who then drains a bit of the liquid from it, and injects it into the meat of Her thighs. Laura flies awake in a few seconds, gasping as She heals Herself, forcing the drug from Her system, and the pain, for a brief few seconds, is transmitted across the bond to Her acolytes before She’s able to regain control.

“Thank you, Sarah.” She gasps.

“How'd you-?”

“Daughter of God.” Several of the Betas chime.

Naveen swallows. “So it's true, then?”

Laura nods. “The one and only.”

“Good to know, now let's get going.”

They rush through corridors, and Sarah calls again to her group, promising to rendezvous at the lobby. Before they do, they’re cut off by another group of Northsun members, who raise their guns for a moment before a flash of recognition runs through their eyes.

“Sarah!” One says, quickly wrapping her in a hug. “I thought you said their private army was out of here! We're getting fucking hammered!”

“They are! This is standard security!” She yells, firing at a guard who happens to make his way across the hall at the moment.

Naveen rushes across to the man’s body, and takes his rifle, tossing it to Derek, who handles it with ease. Together, they make their way towards the lobby, departing from the other members of Northsun. They run into more guards, that Sarah and Derek take down without flinching. Boyd and Scott acquire weapons of their own, and Isaac, Stiles, and Lydia stay in the back, escorting Laura.

The group eventually finds its way to the lobby, only to see the exit blocked by five armed figures, all with their weapons raised, the Argent family itself.

“Ally?!” Scott gasps, in shock.

“Hey, Scott.” Allison responds. She's a pretty thing, short, with tousled brown curls and doe eyes, but the look in the topaz orbs is lethal.

A statuesque woman, all blonde hair and raw sex appeal, stands to Ally’s right. To her immediate right is a man who seems to be a younger Gerard, with green eyes and closely cropped brown hair. Gerard Argent himself stands slightly ahead of the group, point his gun right at Derek.

“I suggest you put your weapons down and get back in your labs.” He says, voice disturbingly even.

Sarah has her pistol leveled with the old man’s face as she responds. “We are leaving, and I strongly suggest you do the same.”

“I doubt your Northsun terrorists can get to our chemical labs to get away with their little plans.” Chris Argent sneers.

“Gerard.” Laura speaks, parting Her followers around Her, and reaching for the old man. “This isn't the way to help her. I know your wife is sick, and I can help her, but not like this.”

“How do you know that?” The octogenarian whispers.

“You know how.” Laura offers Her hand to him. “I can help you, but only if you let me.”

Argent lowers his gun, and begins reaching out for Her, when the sound of three silenced gunshots echoes through the lobby, followed by the sound of marble cracking. Kate Argent's pistol is still smoking as everyone looks around, wondering who was shot.

Laura has gone still, still reaching out for Gerard’s hand. Three bloodstains bloom across Her shirt, one in Her stomach, another below Her left breast, and the third into her right lung. She's frozen, and then, She falls with a dull thud. Cold rage fills the eyes of the acolytes as, without a word, they fire back, sending the five Argents to the floor in a wave of gunfire.

Instantly, Stiles, Lydia, and Erica are pulling back the wounded Messiah.

“We have to go, now.” Sarah urges them. “Boyd, very gently, carry Her.”

The broad man complies, scooping up Laura and following the rest of the group out onto a wide lawn, the broad Argent Labs campus set on a grassy quad. They make it about four hundred yards away from the main building when Laura urges them to stop.

“P- put me down.” She orders. She takes a moment to gasp, before finding Her voice. “I'm leaving you, now. You have to carry on the message.” She coughs.

“Laura, no.” Derek’s voice is wrecked with grief.

She reaches one bloodstained hand up to cup his cheek. “Oh, my faithful Alpha. You've stood by me all these years. You have to carry on, carry them all on.” She says.

“What about the child? What about Apotheosis?” Stiles asks, a tremble in his voice.

The Messiah smiles sanguinely. “Perhaps another way will come. Perhaps Apotheosis isn’t meant to be so simple…” She pauses. “I- I’m with It. The Creator. Oh, it’s so… It’s so beautiful.”

There’s a faraway look in Her eyes, and then, without warning, the light leaves them. The hand that cupped Derek’s cheek falls, and a soft exhalation is all there is as Laura dies. Her body lies there, brown hair forming a halo around Her head as She bleeds out onto the concrete.

“No! No, Laura, please! Come back!” Derek begs, sobs tearing their way free. The rest of the group is in a similar state, ignorant of the coming chaos, until the ground begins to rumble. Without warning, the world is light and heat and fire.

Just as suddenly, Laura’s body flies upward, arms spread wide as though She’s been crucified on air, and the tsunami of fire that barrels towards them curls over as though they’re under a dome. The group watches in awe as white fire moves over them, and Laura, arms still open to the world, is glowing. Her body is pure light, no flesh, and, even with the seemingly blinding light of the firestorm, Stiles can see Her mouth parted in a soundless scream.

High above downtown San Francisco, a news chopper, reporting on an ongoing attack against Argent Labs watches as the laboratory complex is ignited in a lazy flick of fire. None of them expect the fire to go much beyond the lab, but, in a matter of seconds the firestorm is sprinting down Market Street, across to the Financial District, down to South Beach, and across the Embarcadero.

It hasn’t rained in nearly a month in San Francisco, and the night of May 22 is a hot, dry one, windless. In these conditions, the explosion, fueled by nearly forty thousand gallons of liquid propane and massive stockpiles of other highly explosive chemicals, is not just a disaster, instead, it is a tragedy on a scale otherwise unseen in modern history.

Finally, the blaze stops in the heart of Pacific Heights after destroying Fillmore Street, but it goes all the way north to the Fisherman’s Wharf and North Beach, consuming the entirety of downtown. The on ramp to the Bay Bridge collapses, the only evacuation path for many severed. In perhaps fifteen minutes, the fire rages from Mission Bay to the Marina, a distance of just under four miles. The firestorm, eight hundred feet high, has knocked down every skyscraper in the downtown area. Nearly four hundred thousand people die in the first fifteen minutes of the disaster.

Back at the scoriated ruins of Argent Labs, Laura is descending, Her body no longer light, but instead, healed, and back in her usual robes. She touches down just as the sea of fire parts, revealing the charred and ruinous landscape beyond. The fire, having consumed everything it could burn nearest the blast site, quickly flees. As soon as both of Her feet are on the sidewalk, Laura collapses into Derek’s waiting arms.

“Laura? Laura, can you hear me?!” He frantically demands, smacking against Her face to wake Her.

Eventually, She begins to stir, and Her eyes flutter open. “Derek?” She hoarsely whispers.

“Oh, thank God!” Several of the group say simultaneously.

Laura unsteadily stands, leaning heavily against Derek and Stiles. “We have to go. We need to get home.”

Sarah steps forward. “You were just shot and died, and then did… this.” She gestures to the the field that now protects them from the heavily toxic air. “You’re in no condition to move, especially seeing as we have to walk out of this.”

“I’m fine.” Laura says, pushing away from the men supporting Her, only to stumble and be caught by Isaac.

“No, you’re not.” Erica says. “Look, just let the boys help you along, and we’ll get moving. Should we try the Bay Bridge?”

Laura leans against the boys as She speaks. “No, we have to get to a boat, it’s the only way to get home. We have to get to the piers.”

“I don't know if there are any boats left to use at the piers, honey.” Erica says.

“This firestorm probably ate them all up.” Boyd throws out.

Laura shakes Her head. “There's a couple of intact piers. I saw them when I was with It.”

“Speaking of,” Stiles interjects. “We're going to have a very long conversation about that later.”

“Duly noted.” She forces out, stumbling even with Her Alpha and Omega supporting Her.

They walk through the ruins of the city once called San Francisco, finding that the flames were so hot most the buildings hadn't collapsed, rather, they simply disintegrated. There are very few recognizable cars or trolleys, rather, only twist hunks of metallic slag, and certainly there are no bodies, for the firestorm had completely destroyed any living thing it encountered with ease and glee.

The choking smoke is thick enough that, in the night hours, they can barely make out anything more than a few feet in front of them, and they mostly rely on Laura’s vision to guide them past the larger obstacles. It’s nearly an hour of navigating before they reach where the fire petered out and still burns along the edge of the Embarcadero.

Walking again through a wall of fire, they find that Pier 39, a pier famous for the miniature amusement park built on it, miraculously has still-functional boats on its many satellite docks. Laura points the way to a boat large enough to carry all of them, as well as fast enough to cross the Bay in some semblance of a reasonable time.

With the flick of a divine wrist, She gets the engine to turn over and begins driving across the Bay. When they finally pass Treasure Island, the group looks back at the ruined city. A column of smoke and fire miles across stretches, the debris being blown southward, stretching towards the horizon. Sarah shudders at the memories of seeing the eruption of Mount Saint Helens that the black smoke brings. In the back of the boat, Derek and Stiles are curled around one another, both physically and psychically.

“When all of this is over, there’s going to be a lot of quality time with you, me, and a locked door. I mean, hours, maybe even days. You might starve I’ll keep you locked up so tight. I thought I was gonna lose you. I thought we lost Her.”

Derek presses a kiss near Stiles' forehead. “I know, I know. This is just… God, I wanna go home.” 

“We will, boys.” Lydia says, sitting with her legs pulled to her chest.

Another forty five minutes later, they've cleared through to Vallejo, which, to their horror, has a column of fire rising from it as well. Laura docks the boat on the Napa River at the foundry, and is downright sprinting to the sight of the main building engulfed in flames. There are about a dozen black vehicles, each with the Argent Labs logo on its side.

Instantly, Laura’s soulful brown eyes begin to blaze red, and the air smells of ozone. Armed figures in the distance look over to where the aghast group is disembarking, and raise their weapons, screaming orders to put their hands up. The enraged Messiah only stalks forward, Her face tranquil as a lake, spare Her glowing crimson eyes.

“Put your hands up!” One of the Argent mercenaries bellows.

“I suggest you put yours up!” Laura screams back.

“Lady, I am in no mood for your bullshit, put your hands up!” The man, obviously some commander, replies.

Laura stops. “I said, _put your hands up_.”

Instantly, the men's weapons fall to the ground as they're suspended in air, arms stretched above their heads.

“W- what?!” One of the men screams.

Laura glares, hatred raw on her face. “You've attacked my family. You murdered innocents!” She shrieks.

“Oh, God!” A distressed mercenary wails.

Laura gives a harsh laugh. “Who do you think I am?”

Like they were made of paper, the men, held high in the air, begin to burn, rapidly disintegrating to ash, and, in seconds, only glowing embers remain below the spots where they levitated.

The rage leaves Laura’s eyes, and she falls to her knees, weeping at the sight of her home, and all the people she so cared for reduced to ash on a growing wind.

The surviving Ascendants, joined by the doctor, load themselves into an unmarked vehicle, and drive southward, finally stopping at a hotel in Oakland, directly across the Bay from San Francisco. Derek and Stiles sit on the balcony outside their room and watch the city burn.

“Jesus. They're all gone. Everything we built. Our whole lives.” Stiles whispers in shock. “What're we gonna do?”

Derek wraps his arm around the slighter man’s shoulders, pressing a kiss to his temple. “Laura’s meditating, trying to see if the Creator will give her some vision of where to go, what to do. We just wait until then.”

Just then, Dr. Naveen comes up, holding out a cell phone. “The phone’s charged, if you want, you can call your folks, let them know you're alive.” She says. “The others have.”

Hesitating, Derek takes the phone, and presses in a number. After a moment, a voice on the other side picks up.

‘ _Hello?_ ’

“Mom? It's Derek.”

‘ _Derek? Oh, God, baby. I was so worried!_ ’

“Yeah, I know. We were right in the thick of it, but She got us out.”

‘ _Where else would you be? Is She alright? Can I talk to Her?_ ’

“She's meditating, Ma.”

The woman chuckles wryly. ‘ _Her visitation rights, one presumes._ ’

“She's trying.”

‘ _Well, when She's done, let Her know I really want to hear from Her._ ’

“I will, mother.”

_‘I love you, Derek. Take of your sister.’_

“Love you, too. Bye.”

Stiles goggles at Derek, angling his head. “You mean… you and… _sister?!_ ” He demands, face plain in shock.

Derek outright giggles at the resemblance Stiles bears to a fish. “Yes. Laura is my sister.”

“She said Her parents were infertile, though!” He fires back.

“The Creator healed Mom’s womb. We have another sister, Cora, but she’s a bit young to be involved in all this.”

Stiles breathes a sigh of relief. “So, you’re not God on Earth like Laura?”

Derek shakes his head. “Nope, just another man. Do you want to make your call?” The taller man holds out the cellphone.

“Yeah, I probably should.” Stiles takes it with a shaky hand, uneasily pressing the numbers for his father’s cell.

It rings long enough that he thinks maybe John Stilinski won’t pick up, before, just as it’s about to cut to voicemail, a sleep-rough voice answers.

‘ _Stilinski_.’

“Dad… It’s Stiles.”

There’s swearing, and a sound of rustling, as well as general scrambling. ‘ _Jesus, kid, where have you been?! Are you hurt, oh, God, what’s the matter?!_ ’

“Dad, listen to me. I’m calling to let you know I’m alive, especially considering what happened. I’m with Scott, he’s safe, too.”

‘ _What’s happened, Stiles? What the Hell are you talking about?_ ’

“Turn on the news, Dad.”

‘ _Okay, I will. Just- holy shit!_ _What the Hell?!_ ’

“I was in the Bay Area, I’m in Oakland, Scott and I are safe.”

‘ _Stiles, will you please just come home? We’ve been worried sick about the two of you for two months now!_ ’

“Dad, I will come home. I just can’t, not quite yet. When I can, when it’s time for me to come home, I will. I promise you. Listen, I will call you again, sometime soon, okay?”

‘ _Stiles, what are you doing?_ ’

“Something big, Dad. Something really big. You have to trust me on this, okay? I love you.”

‘ _Whatever you’re doing just…_ ’ John sighs from across the line, ‘ _Stay safe. I love you, too, kid._ ’

“I will.” With that, the line goes dead. Stiles takes a shuddering breath, wipes the tears from his eyes, and marches to Sarah’s room to give her her phone. He hands the doctor her device, and the two return to Derek, where he’s talking to Erica.

“Laura wants to see us all.” She says. “She thinks She knows where we should go.”

Inside Laura’s hotel room, the Messiah is waiting. “Thanks, guys. I meditated for a bit, and I saw something. A cabin on the 191 maybe ten miles from Holbrook, Arizona. I think that’s where we should go.”

“You’re the boss. To Arizona, then.” Isaac says.

“Sarah, you’ve helped us so much, can we get you to some family, or something?” Laura offers.

“Well, you are pregnant, and I’m a trained OB/GYN. You might want someone professionally trained to help you along.” She suggests, voice trailing uncertainly.

Laura's answering smile is blinding.

**Some Months Later**

**-Ω-**

‘ _New investigations into the deadliest terror attack in world history has revealed that Argent Bioengineering Corp illegally stored almost fifty thousand gallons of liquid propane alongside almost a thousand tons of white phosphorus and thirty thousand gallons of napalm. The bioengineering corporation was only an aspect of an enormous private army, and similar stockpiles have been discovered, each larger than the last, each a greater threat than the last. The largest of these stockpiles, in Manhattan, had sufficient destructive power to destroy both Manhattan and Brooklyn, as well as much of Queens. Thankfully, the chemicals have been removed. Victoria Argent, the last surviving member of the family, is scheduled to appear before Congress to testify as to what exactly the purpose of such a private army was._ ’

Laura clicks off the morning news when Boyd calls that breakfast is ready, and uses Lydia to assist Her in getting up. Moving is not so easy, especially as Her third trimester is about to begin. The group is sitting at the large table in the dining room, Boyd is passing about his pancakes while Scott and Isaac bicker lovingly over bacon.

 _That_ was an interesting development, to say the least. Scott’s guilt for having been involved with Allison ate at him for months until he finally seemed to absolve himself, at which point Isaac had stepped in with a declaration of intention. They’d been going strong ever since. Derek and Stiles were themselves doing fine, eagerly awaiting the arrival of the child, who just last week Laura had conceded to learning the gender. Using Lydia’s hacking abilities and Sarah’s credentials as an obstetrician, the group was able to acquire all the necessary equipment to have the birth at the house, including an ultrasound machine.

After a jovial meal, Laura, accompanied by Her Alpha and Omega, takes a walk into the desert of Arizona. White robes trailing, She pauses, looking out from the bluff the large log cabin is built upon.

“This is it. This is the vision. We were always meant to be here.” She says, wonder in Her voice. “We start again here.”

Stiles speaks up. “Speaking of starts, since the baby’s a boy, I was researching names, and, I uh… I found one I think works. Apotheon. Apotheon Alexander Hale. Now, before you go rushing to judgement, it means ‘To become god’ in ancient Greek, and he can always go by Alex, or maybe Theo.”

“Stiles.” Laura bemusedly cuts him off. “It’s not my baby. I’m just carrying it. This is a decision for you and Derek.” She points to Her second in command.

Derek appears pensive for a moment, before, with a nod, he consents. “I think it’s perfect.” He says, pulling Stiles in for a tight hug.

Laura runs Her hands over Her growing stomach. “Well, Apotheon Alexander Hale, get ready. You’ve got a lot of work ahead of you.”

The three walk back towards their desert manor in an easy silence.

**Author's Note:**

> I sincerely hope you enjoyed this work, I know I enjoyed writing it! Drop a review, please!


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